A rivulet of sweat

A rivulet of sweat

Ran down the author’s brow

Had to write a poem

But wasn’t sure just how.

 

The sweat trickled down his forehead

The sweat trickled off his nose

Where would he find a poem?

Heaven only knows!

 

The sweat gathered in a puddle

It gathered on the floor

He found his inspiration was

Not stuck any more.

 

By the sweat of his brow

He found it, found a new idea

When inspiration’s needed

You’ll often find it near.

 

Via Rivulet

The Poet’s Muse

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She’s a delicate flower the poet’s muse.

She can really inspire but will always refuse

To do menial tasks or help with chores.

She will take your hand, help you find new heights

And will gladly unveil her supreme delights.

But the humbler tasks she’ll blithely ignore.

For muses won’t work nine to five you know.

They’re not always ready or  ‘good to go’.

 

She may not deliver every day.

Too delicate in her temperament.

You can hector her but she won’t relent.

She can’t work like that. It’s not her way.

The poet’s muse is a sensitive flower.

If you treat her badly she’ll sulk and glower.

She’ll punish you, leave your head in hands

.

 

A poem a day’s not really her style.

She alas can’t inspire you all the while.

She loves to delight but not to plan.

So treat her kindly, don’t push her too hard

Respect how she’s made. The way that she’s wired.

Treat her gently, don’t let her get tired.

For a poet can’t work if he’s not inspired.